


Beauty Bared

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Self Confidence Issues, Supportive Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 16:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: The reader’s self-consciousness waylays what is meant to be a special night. Castiel is the super loving and supportive partner we all know he would be faced with such a situation. Fluff. References to adult activities. Angel wings (because, why not?). Requested by a sweet anon.





	Beauty Bared

Metallic-embossed grey and yellow floral wallpaper shimmers in the diffuse golden glow of a bedside candle; flattering the petals of the delicately drawn peonies lining the walls with a surreal likeness of life-light, the flame dances and sways seductively to a silent song suspended in the softly bated breath of the seraph who sits, parted lips plump-pink and trembling with the promised passion of a hundred preceding kisses, waiting for you on the edge of the bed.

Lavender infused beeswax, the sweet effervescence arising in the air from two half-consumed flutes of champagne – one rim brushed with the fuzzy imprint of a lower lip in plum-tinted gloss – and the heady perfume of rose petals scattered over the bleached linen duvet dressing the bed behind him undulates with the overwhelming scent and taste of you lingering on his skin and tongue in an erotic ether so dense his angelic senses swim, deluged by a rising sea of sensuality.

Inhaling a ragged gulp of the intoxicating mélange, Castiel musters every ounce of celestial fortitude he possesses to continue the wait. Standing, directing the suppressed fury of his desire into mindless motion, he commences pacing the perimeter of the sumptuous space. Eagerness flushes his handsome features in the flicker of candlelight when he occasionally tilts his aspect, darkened blues drifting to the door of the bathroom where you disappeared many minutes ago – _too_ many minutes ago; already the flesh of his body misses the pulsing proximity of your heat, yearns to quash all distance separating you.

Vessel quickening with lust at mere memory, white dress shirt untucked and missing the topmost buttons in haste to fumbling fingers, belt buckle flung asunder, boots kicked to a corner in a chaos of groping limbs and colliding mouths, enduringly patient, coolly summoning control to soldier on and stay the intensifying wants of his vessel in deference to the boundaries of your comfort, he _waits_.

This was your idea – a romantic dinner, a nice hotel, _sex_.

Not the frenzied fully clothed high school make out sessions in the bunker leaving you both breathless, sweaty, and ultimately unsated. Not the surreptitious somatic touches of seraphim grace in the backseat of the Impala or wherever else he resolves to make you squirm. Not the magic of your mouth molded around his member eliciting sinful growls from his throat in carnal consolation for the self-consciousness that prevents you from giving yourself over to him completely in the bodily sense of revelation.

Not that all of the above isn’t _nice_ – it’s absolute heaven; but it’s also a love with limits setting an outward barrier on a bond where, when it comes to the angel, your _inner_ heart knows no such bounds. It’s a hurdle you want, more than anything, to overcome for him. That was the plan for tonight, anyway; until you faced the moment, peered into the mirror, felt the familiar fear of not being good enough, pretty enough, worthy enough for his love, or anyone’s love – especially your own – squeeze a paralytic vice-grip of panic in the center of your chest strong enough to stutter the clarity of longing for him and everything else.

When you finally slide the door open, defeated by self-doubt, shrouded securely in the concealing fabric of a bathrobe and not the sexy lingerie you chose to commemorate the evening, a sob of sorrowful apology spilling from your lips with his name, he freezes in place; the shape of his outstretched wings, uncontained and cast in shadow, fall to his sides at the sight of you.

His lips falter in a frown when he perceives the puffy red rims of your eyes and streaks of wetness staining your cheeks. Moving forward, opening his arms to you, wings enfolding you as you stumble toward him to seek sanctuary in his solid embrace, any thoughts of consummation vanish in the tenderness of consolation welling up in his heart. He, too, knows well the wiles and woes of doubt.

Holding you firm, palms sliding soothingly up and down your spine, he nuzzles the scruff of his chin against your neck; he whispers that it’s okay, _means it_ , tells you that he loves you, _now_ and _forever_. Smoothing a hand over your hair, he kisses each of your shuttered eyelids in turn; he reassures upon the salt of sadness freshly wetting their corners that you are _beautiful_ , that he wishes you could see yourself as he sees you – a soul shining brighter than anything else under his Father’s sun.


End file.
